


Smoke and Snowflakes

by animalboything



Category: Fruits Basket
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5550599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animalboything/pseuds/animalboything
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hatori reflects on Kana on a chilly, spring day.</p>
<p>Quite an old drabble I recently found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Snowflakes

Hatori made a habit of smoking whenever the chance would present itself. He’d received mild grief from Momiji, but the man would only ignore him, index finger tapping the graying ash off the end before pressing the end into the base of an ashtray, or dropping it on the ground only to grind the edge into a thick smear with the toe of his shoe. He enjoyed the taste of menthol, the thick smoke he exhaled, the motion itself. It was appropriate for the fiery dragon of the Zodiac; it was appropriate to coat the taste of Kana’s kiss. 

His lips scorched.

Often he would sit on the deck outside his office to smoke, sitting on the wooden edge, sock-covered feet swinging like a pendulum. The surrounding Sohma gardens were soothing despite how pacified Hatori’s temperament was. The tiny spark would upset the balance of nature much like Hatori’s presence – he was an annoyance. 

Kana… 

Three years passed.

Kana…

First love. Only love. 

Kana… 

He took the woman for granted, ignored the lilac in her perfume, tried to ignore the radiant smile but her simplicity upset the rhythm of his day. Cold as snow, yet Kana loved him. 

Hatori would repent, content as he resorted to isolation. Akito often complained that his melancholy didn’t appease her taste, but still he wouldn’t change. 

“I’m content.”

He would live in and out with each day, the routine often the same, on occasion offering the driest of humor, taking a perverse delight in the torment of Shigure or any of the children – taunting Ayame wouldn’t phase the man in the least but rather give him the wrong idea. It would take a blind man not to notice the man who worshipped his essence; Hatori was only half-blind. 

The wind chime rang, a tinkering of metal as the wooden piece rotated, hitting each small cylinder before spiraling off, an unsynchronized harmony leading the smoke ballerinas in the sky. 

A large snow flake fell above his knee, charred grey until it absorbed against his thigh. Soon, others joined the descent, the twirl. 

Snow in spring – his heart froze over once more.


End file.
